


a wicked thing

by ayuminb



Series: Jonsa Smut Week [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (see y'all in hell), (this is admittedly the filthiest thing i've ever written), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Ambiguous Dom/Sub Undertones, Ambiguous Sansa Stark, Behold - My Oneway Ticket to Hell, Cunnilingus, Dark Jon Snow, Dirty Talk, Everything is Different - Except Jon Still Goes to The Wall, Except Jon - Who Dies and Comes Back Different, F/M, Fingerfucking, Half-Sibling Incest, Post-Canon, Post-Series, The Long Night, The Sin is Too Real
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 09:56:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12885414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayuminb/pseuds/ayuminb
Summary: Jon never lets her forget who is the one giving her pleasure.[written for theJonsa Smut Week, day six - forbidden]





	a wicked thing

“You’ve the prettiest cunt, Sansa.”

 

She whimpers in a sort of embarrassing delight; she’ll never grow used to such foul words, but it’s _impossible_ to deny they have an effect on her. They kind that leaves her even _more_ wet between her legs, aching and longing; the kind that makes her beg for more, just as Jon _likes_ it. Her eyes close tight and her cheeks _burn_ – and yet, she wants more, whispers for him to keep going.

 

“The sweetest, too,” his hand presses between her shoulder blades, pushes until she bends forward, bracing her arms on the furs of her bed. “Sweetest cunt I’ve ever tasted,” he kneels behind her, drags the flat of his tongue up along her folds, humming in content as if to prove his point. “Pretty and sweet and all mine.”

 

He keeps lapping at her, occasionally reaching down to suck or flick at her nub or up so he can work his tongue into her until she squirms restlessly. Squirms and moans his name softly; she can’t make too much noise now, not while they’re in her chambers, lest someone passing by hears. His tongue is relentless, though, and Sansa can only bite the furs to muffle her response to that.

 

“Shall I fuck you now, Sansa?”

 

How is it that he sounds so courteous posing such a filthy question? Why is it that such a thing makes her want him so? She bites the inside of her cheek to stop the whimpers from tumbling past her lips; the urge is strong.

 

“Gods, but you’re so wet, Sansa,” he plunges two fingers into her, rubbing places his tongue can’t reach. “Tell me, will you let your bastard brother fuck you now?”

 

She doesn’t answer, Jon doesn’t expect a verbal answer – because she shudders and moans loudly enough to be heard even with her face buried into her bed. He gets it anyway, that way. Always the same answer, to the same question – he likes to voice it, wants her to always remember who is the one to give her so much pleasure. Who is the one warming her bed at night. As if she could _ever_ forget, as if she could even _want to_. Sansa knows, she will never stop craving Jon’s attentions now.

 

She’s tried to stop, to resist, and she’s failed.

 

“I await my answer.”

 

 _Oh_ so he does want her to say the words. Sansa trembles, pushes herself onto her elbows and allows Jon to pull her all the way up, until her naked back touches his chest – also devoid of clothing. Is it only his chest, are his breeches off too?

 

His hands rove over her breasts, eliciting the most wonderful of sensations in her; Jon still won’t let her be distracted. “Will you let your bastard brother fuck you now? Or would you prefer I bury my face between your legs, taste your sweet and pretty cunt for a little longer instead?”

 

His hips roll forward and – _no_ , his breeches remain. She shivers, because _this_ , this means tonight will be another wonderfully long and tortuous night.

 

“No?” he sounds so _proper_ , almost chivalrous—she moans. “Perhaps you’d prefer I bury my cock in your pert ass,” Jon presses a chaste kiss to her shoulder, keeps his lips there. “You like that, don’t you, Sansa? Aye,” another roll of his hips, harder than the last – he keeps one hand on her chest, playing with her teats, and lets the other wander down, down, _down_. “Aye, you do. M'lady, you peaked so hard the first time I fucked you like that; it was glorious.”

 

His fingers rub lazy circles to her nub, slowly increasing the pressure. She’s wet enough that she can feel it licking at the top of her inner thighs, coating his fingers when these swipe a fraction lower—makes her body burn, her hips rock back, and she knows Jon won’t touch her there again until she tells him to.

 

“You were glorious,” he says, smirks against her neck.

 

 _It felt glorious_ , she wants to say; by all _means_ , she should hate it, being thoroughly debauched by her bastard brother, Gods she _ought_ to. But Jon, whispering all manners of filthy promises into her ear, into her skin – he makes everything sounds so very _intriguing_ , so very wonderful. Sansa just wanted to try; _just once_ , she’d said, to sate a curiosity that only Jon had seemed to recognize in her. To sate the hunger he’d unknowingly unleashed within her upon his return from the Great War.

 

Just _once_ – but then, Jon made that one time so, so _good_. She can’t help herself—could not help herself then—this wantonness only he evokes in her.

 

Perhaps it’s something she recognized in him as well – why else. Why else would she be so drawn to her half-brother? His time at The Wall changed him, and then the Great War. _But we all changed, what makes Jon so… incredibly fascinating?_ Is it the winter, this accursed winter that keeps them Northerners locked up in their homes most of the time now?

 

Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t; she no longer cares.

 

“You’ll deny me an answer, Sansa?”

 

She will, smothers a smirk of her own; making things easier for him usually means all of the delightfully sinful things they do will be over too soon. Sansa won’t _admit_ , she loved the thrill of making him lose control, this guessing game. Just like he won’t admit, he loves her rebellious attitude, however subtle it is.

 

“Very well then,” he places a soft kiss to her shoulder, then her neck, and up, nipping at her earlobe, “I shall take my pick.”

 

A gentle push, Jon urges her onto the bed; she crawls onto it, then twists around so she can sit while she faces him with her legs folded to the side. His eyes are riveted to her chest and – ah, _yes_ , he loves to see her bosom sway and bounce. Especially _bounce_ ; Jon loves to watch her tits bounce as she rides him to his heart’s content—and to _hers_. Loves to see them when she lies beneath him and he pounds into her restlessly. When his eyes lift to meet her own, he smirks, slow and tempting; Sansa feels the heat simmering under her skin. He raises his hand, the one he’s been using to please her, almost in triumphant salute; he climbs onto the bed, draws near until their knees brush.

 

She swallows a moan, stares into his dark eyes trying to catch a glimpse of the grey she’s come to love – there’s none, only an abyss of black. This close there’s no denying the wet of his fingers, there’s no avoiding a reaction when he sucks on them. No stopping his gentle nudge to do the same.

 

Sansa wraps her lips around his fingers, swirls her tongue over them before sucking – the rumbling moan that escapes him is as satisfying as his desperate tugs to unlace his breeches. _Clearly_ , Jon’s not the only one who’s learned to play this game.

 

He snaps first; a hand on her shoulder forces her onto her back quickly, the other parts her knees wide open, obscenely so. There’s no hiding from his hungry gaze like this – as it’s his intent. And yet, when he leans down, the kiss he places on her lips it’s the softest yet of the night.

 

“Did you know,” his words are barely a whisper, “I never tire of you, Sansa, I never will.”

 

The sweetest words he’s spoken yet—the most innocent, that’s for certain. Oh, but her bastard brother is the most glorious dichotomy. And _hers_ , a little voice rumbles deep down in her, only hers. Nobody, nobody else may have him. Nobody else will.

 

Her hands go to finish his halted attempt at freeing his cock, it falls heavy and pulsing against her palm and Jon shudders when she gives it a firm stroke. There’s another kiss, deep and long, before he pulls away; bending down, he grabs her hips and adjusts her position a little, tilts her hips to the side.

 

“Jon?” the inquiry leaves her before she can properly process it; only his name but it is enough for his eyes to glint in satisfaction.

 

“She speaks,” he says, _reverently_ , hooking one of her legs onto his shoulder and forcing her hips at an angle. “Will you give me what I want now?”

 

An _answer_.

 

He straddles her thigh, places the head of his cock at her entrance—a push and he’d be buried in her; a push and they’d both find the release they crave. The hand that’s not holding her leg to his shoulder rests below her navel, thumb stroking her mound slowly. Sansa’s had enough of teasing for the night.

 

“Yes,” she gasps, hands fisting over the furs. “Yes, I’ll let my bastard brother fuck me.”

 

A snap of his hips, and his cock stretches her in the most delicious of ways; her whimper is drown out by his groan. Jon stops and trembles, a thing rocking his whole body; he reaches for her hand, guiding it to the place where they're joined in silent invitation – she touches herself.

 

Then he moves, thrusts deep, slow, savoring the sensation as much as she does, but _Sansa_ —Sansa needs more. She lets go of the furs, reaches out for the hand that's not leaving its mark on the skin of her thigh; she tugs, and tugs, until his focus is back on her. Fully.

 

"I'll let you fuck me," she whispers, then places a kiss to the palm of his hand. "Jon, I want you to fuck me."

 

He grunts as his hips snap forward, once, twice, another harsh thrust and now—now it feels like fucking, now it gets closer to what she wants. But Jon is still Jon, deep _down_ , thus he cradles the side of her face and caresses her cheek softly. So she doesn’t stop talking, telling him all he wants to hear, throwing back his words in the breathiest of whispers and confessing some of her own desires. How she longs for the nights to be longer still so their time together would never end, how she longs for him to let her ride him again, _you’d let me ride your face as well, wouldn’t you, Jon, oh you would JonJonJon_ —

 

“—my sweet bastard brother,” she gasps, slides her leg off his shoulder and brings him down until his forehead touches hers; his frenzied state sends a thrill down her spine and, Gods, she’s so close. “Neither do I—I’ll never tire of this, of _you_.”

 

With every word, every promise, he pounds into her harder and faster, eyes never leaving her own as he propels them both closer and closer to that wonderful oblivion.


End file.
